stripped down to the essentials
by ladyvivien
Summary: Sometimes when the wrappings fall, there's nothing underneath at all.


It's something of a ritual for them now. He returns from a mission and she returns from a day at the office to find him sprawled out on her sofa, drinking her best single malt and acting like he owns the place.

Which, since she paid for it with literal blood, sweat and tears (admittedly some of it his), is a bit of a bloody cheek.

And it doesn't stop there. She finds her books placed back on the shelves out of order, her fridge ransacked and one more than one occasion her browser history has made her eyes water. She's only grateful that he had the good sense to do it on her work computer, the one her husband knows not to even touch because, whilst her marriage has survived assassination attempts, professional infidelity and the longest working hours outside a sweatshop, she's not sure it would survive countless images of attractive young men tied to the bed and being flogged by an older woman.

She's not entirely sure how she survived it, if she's honest.

She allows the insubordination and trespassing because secretly, it's nice to have someone to come home to. Her husband has created his own double life over the years, one that includes friends she's never had time to meet and a club in Pall Mall. She won't ask him to sacrifice his own happiness for her career. They have weekends and holidays and a place in the country where the bodyguards keep their distance, and that's enough. He has his life, she has… well, she supposes she has James. After a fashion.

The unspoken rule is that he doesn't touch her husband's possessions. And, true to form, he doesn't.

She wishes she'd been more specific about hers, though, when she walks in from a particularly gruelling fight with the PM to discover James lying on her sofa wearing a dress shirt and her favourite pair of knickers.

She's torn between surprise, (because she didn't think that was James' cup of tea), irritation (because she's going to have to replace them after he's stretched them out like that) and a hot, dizzying rush of desire (because he is, quite frankly, enormous).

"Dare I ask?" she asks dryly, hoping that her voice isn't trembling as much as her legs are.

"You're late. I was bored."

"So you just thought you'd rummage through my knicker drawer and play dress-up?" It occurs to her that if he's done that, he's probably found quite a few of her other personal possessions, and it takes all the control she's developed over the years not to blush. Because her husband has his life, she has James, and sometimes all you want to do after a frustrating circular conversation with your most brilliant agent is to get under the covers and fuck yourself silly thinking of all the ways you'd like to put him in his place.

"You don't think it suits me?" he asks, mock-hurt. "Fine, I'll take them off." He moves to do just that, but she puts out her hand.

"Not in front of the windows, Bond. I'd rather my neighbours didn't ask my husband why there was a strange man in my flat parading around in my living room in the altogether."

He smirks. "Your neighbours won't see a thing. Along with being so bullet-proof they could withstand Armageddon, your windows are specially coated. You can see out, they can't see in. You could parade around in the altogether, if you wanted." There's a glint in his eyes that looks dangerously like an invitation, and she fights back a desire to do just that.

"Get changed, 007."

He shoots her an inscrutable look, but the use of his number shows she's serious and so he shrugs and lopes off to her bedroom where she prays his trousers are.

His lace-covered arse does look bloody good, though.

Maybe it's revenge, maybe it's desire, but something makes her follow him to the bedroom door.

He looks up, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

"I don't trust you not to steal anything," she tells him, with steel in her voice.

Without looking away, he pulls the knickers off and hands them to her. They're warm from his body, and a little damp. _Christ._ There's something submissive in his pose, that makes want clutch in her stomach. That makes her shove them back in his hand and snarl, "put them back on."

He looks startled. "Ma'am?"

"Put them back on. Lose the shirt, and go and lie on the bed. _Now_."

He does as he's told for once, and he watches silently as she rummages around for…ah, there they are. Not where she'd left them.

She moves over to the bed, showing him what she's holding, giving him the opportunity to back out. He doesn't. She hadn't expected him to.

"Wrist." He raises his arm, lets her attach the leather cuff. She lifts it gently above his head, looping the chain between the iron bars at the top of the bed, and cuffs his other wrist too. She looks down to see that the already impressive bulge beneath the lace has grown considerably. She's never getting them back in one piece now.

She steps back and admires her handiwork, the recalcitrant agent tied to her bed, naked except for a pair of obscenely expensive - and frankly, now just obscene - french knickers. Very nice. Very nice indeed.

"I think you're overdue a lesson, don't you, James?" She's not using his number, not like this. No matter what she's said in her private fantasies, what orders she's imagined giving, if she brings work into it she's never going to be able to call him 007 without blushing again.

She raises an eyebrow, indicating that a response is required, and he nods.

"I think," she says, skimming a nail down his torso, across his impeccably toned abdomen and stopping just above the lace, "that you need to be reminded exactly what happens to naughty boys who break into other people's homes." His hips buck, and she wonders how long he's wanted this. "And you have been a very, very naughty boy, haven't you, James?"

Another nod, his lips pinched tightly shut as if he's afraid of what he might say, what he might ask for, if he speaks.

She runs a hand over his cock, imagining how pretty the patterns of the lace will look branded on his skin. She delivers a stinging slap to his balls.

"Your safe word is Moneypenny." He deserves that. Let him be reminded of her, of the fact that M lost a bloody good personal assistant because James wouldn't sodding leave her alone. Tanner is more than competent, but she'd been grooming Penny for something more than sidekick status by the time she finally transferred. So if things go too far, if he feels genuinely uncomfortable, let him be reminded that she knows when no means no because she's not a sexist, consent-ignoring arsehole, unlike certain other people she could mention.

Seeing that he's understood, she takes the riding crop from the wardrobe (she knows enough not to keep all the pieces of the puzzle in one place) and trails it down his body. She snaps it against his thigh, leaving an ugly red mark. He doesn't so much as flinch.

"This isn't torture, James," she says softly, although she's not sure what it is. "You're allowed to react."

He swallows, nods, and when she leaves a matching mark on the other thigh, he hisses sharply. She cracks the whip hard against his pectorals, wondering if nipple clamps would be too much. She caresses the stung skin, tutting softly.

"You're a bit of a mess, aren't, you James?"

He laughs, a harsh bark in the silence of the room.

Although the last mission was as clean as it gets, his body is littered with scars from the times when things got messy. As a matter of policy, the worst scars get removed, but his skin is still puckered and ridged. She finds her fingers fluttering to her abdomen, tracing her own scar through her blouse.

"You need to learn some respect for other people's property," she tells him. "And this," she sweeps the palm of her hand from shoulder to knee, "is my property."

He shudders, and bites his lip. So much more responsive than she'd hoped for.

"It's a messy job, but I won't have you taking unnecessary risks. I can see you in ten year's time, as riddled with bullets as you are with whatever you've picked up from the women. They won't always clear up with a few pills, you know."

There's a trace of bitterness she can't be bothered to hide. Her time in the field gave her 00 status, the grudging respect of the old boys club and the power to bring the Western world crumbling down if she chooses. It also left her infertile, and whilst she never really wanted children, she did want the choice. If James lives long enough, one day he'll come in from the cold and realise he wants more than adrenaline and anonymous sex and she wants him to have options. He might as well learn from her mistakes. God knows she never did.

"So what do you suggest?" he asks in a low growl. "Take a vow of celibacy?" God, he's magnificent. Feral even when he's tied to the bed wearing women's lingerie. Sod sending him out onto the field, she could retire on what she'd make from whoring him out to menopausal career women who like brains with their brawn.

Then again, she's not ready to retire. And she's never liked sharing.

"Sex is a weapon," she tells him. "And like any weapon, you should be careful when you decide to deploy it. Otherwise," her hand moves to his cock, and she strokes it through the fabric, "you'll just shoot everywhere. And that gets frightfully messy."

He groans as she palms his balls through the lace. He really is very well-equipped Every terrorist's girlfriend, gangster's moll and friendly CIA tart across the globe must be having trouble walking. She throbs at the thought of what she could do with him. It's not like he'd say no. He never does.

"Seduce women as part of the mission by all means. But only when you have to. If you've got an itch that needs scratching..." she pauses, because even a world-renowned spymistress needs courage when it comes to telling a man nearly half her age that she wants him in her bed. "Then you come to me. Understand?"

"Fuck yes. Christ, M, take these off and touch me. So fucking hard for you."

He actually lets out a yowl of pain when she lashes him across the chest.

"What makes you think I'm finished punishing you? Hmm? Or did you think that I'd be like all the rest, and spread my legs for you the moment I get a glimpse of that truly magnificent cock of yours?

She taps the crop on his erection, and he tenses. Le Chiffre, she'd forgotten. Whilst it's tempting to see how much he's willing to take from her, she meant it when she told him it wasn't torture.

She lets the riding crop clatter to the floor and walks out, letting him read into that what he will. She pours herself a large scotch with a shaky hand and gulps half of it down before topping it up again. She stares out at the London skyline, her city spread out before her. Forget Number 10, forget the Palace. This country is hers. She's earned it.

And she's earned that man-child in her bed as well, she reminds herself. He wouldn't be there if he didn't want to be. She's under no illusions about his ability to walk in here and overpower her. The cuffs are for sex play, not interrogation. The only thing keeping him there is... What? Curiosity? It can't be desire, not for her. Her position maybe, but her reflection looks back at her from those one-way windows, sillhouetted against St Paul's, and she can see every line, every sag. Her analytical mind isn't the only reason she's doing a desk job these days.

She wants this, with a fierceness that frightens her. She'd resigned herself to fantasies in the dark of the night, where she doesn't have to see the wrinkles on her hand as she eases it between her legs, or her sagging tits. The girls James fucks on missions don't wrinkle. They don't live long enough to get old.

It's that that sends the tumbler slamming down onto the marble worksurface, and makes her stride back into the bedroom to look down on her agent, trussed and erect and all for her.

"Do you really think you could make me come?" she asks, derision dripping from her words. "A boy like you? Who has to break into people's houses for a kick, who's still playing at cowboys and indians, even though he gets paid for it?"

"Let me show you," he whispers. "Please, ma'am. You don't even have to untie me."

She gazes at him for a moment, all hard and needy and begging, and nods. She unzips her skirt, letting it pool to her ankles, letting him stare. Then, one by one, she undoes each button on her blouse. She's standing there, in her bra, knickers and tights, every imperfection there for him to see.

"Take a good look," she says softly. "It's not all expensive lace and silk stockings. Do you still want to do this?"

"Yes," he mutters hoarsely.

"Well," she comments tartly, wriggling out of her tights and unfastening her bra. "You're even more perverse than I realised, James." She steps out of her knickers and, holding them, glares at him. "If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I want you to remember one thing. These are bloody comfortable, and if you ruin them I'll have you killed." He nods, looking slightly scared, She contemplates explaining support panels and elastic, but if she can get him through the next decade intact, he'll find out for himself.

She climbs onto the bed, straddling his waist. She can feel his sweat-dampened skin, and her own arousal wet against his stomach and her breath hitches. She feels the lace itch against her skin as his erection presses against her arse. He'll have to be a very good boy if he wants that.

"Go on," she purrs, as though she was twenty five and flawless. "Take a good look, Mr Bond."

"Free my hands and I'll do more than just look," he growls. She can imagine how sure, how skilled his touch would be. He could undo her with just his hand on her back. Which is why he isn't going to get the chance.

"Why don't we see what you can do with that mouth of yours instead?"

She's barely in place when she feels his tongue flicker against her clit and she can't fight back the moan. She tangles her hands in his hair, twisting it till it hurts and he drives his tongue deep into her cunt and then attacks her clit with hard, hungry licks.

""See?" she gasps out. "You can follow orders when you want to."

She feels mildly traitorous to her husband when she realises that this is shaping up to be the best sex she's had in years. His tongue trails down her cleft, teasing her perinium lightly with the promise of where he could pleasure her if she'd only let him...

"Oh you bad, bad boy," she breathes. "Is this what you wanted when you waited for me? Sprawled on my sofa, displaying yourself like that?" He moans against her pussy, and the sensations make her shiver. "You didn't need to, you know. I could have had you whenever I wanted. A snap of my fingers, and I could have you on your knees. Or over mine, would you prefer that?" She rather likes teasing him when he can't answer back. "I'm just surprised you waited. How often have you gotten yourself off in my flat, hmm?" From the stuttered breath, hot against her, she knows he's done it. God, the thought of him, wanking off on her sofa, in her bed, that glorious cock between his slim, sure fingers...

She can feel the spiral of desire coil tighter in her belly, feel every muscle tense, straining towards release. All that matters is his tongue on her clit. Her husband could walk in, the Prime Minister, she wouldn't care. She just needs to come, so very, very badly...

Her hands trail over her breasts, pinching her nipple hard. He looks up and she feels him quake beneath her, and she wonders if he's going to come without her even touching him, right there in her knickers...

That's all it takes to push her over the edge. She can hear herself making loud, incoherent noises but all she cares about is her cunt clenching tightly against his tongue again and again.

When her vision clears, she releases her vice-like grip on the headboard and manovoeures herself off carefully, lying down next to him a trembling, sweat-soaked puddle of a woman.

"Christ," he says, licking her off his lips and looking like a cat who broke into the dairy.

"This," she pants, "is why I'm not allowed to sleep with my agents. It's not because of professional boundaries or sexual harassment suits. It's because I can't see straight and I'm not sure if I'll ever walk again."

He laughs. He looks happy, not just pleased with himself.

"Does this mean you're going to untie me."

She briefly considers it, but there's too much movement involved.

"Do it yourself," she murmurs, and within minutes he's stretching and curling up around her. It could be a sweet, intimate gesture if it wasn't for the impressive erection straining at the lace, and pressing insistently against her back.

"Do it yourself," she repeats, with an edge of command in her voice. "Show me what you do when you're sitting in the dark, waiting for me, James."

He rips off the knickers and she makes a mental note to put the replacement on his credit card. Without taking his eyes off her, he fists his cock from balls to tip and groans.

"Do you know how often I've done this, M?" he grunts. "How often I've wanted you to walk in on me like this?" His thumb runs over the head with the ease of practice.

"Poor James," she says, voice saccharine sweet and dripping with false sympathy. "I didn't have you pegged for someone who has to resort to self-satisfaction."

He snorts. "Oddly enough, pegging featured in those fantasies. A lot." A jolt of lust pierces her post-orgasmic state at the thought. "And what is it they say about masturbation? Don't knock it, it's sex with someone I love."

Her laugh turns to a moan as she watches him tug frantically on his cock. It doesn't take long - he's spurting onto his taut stomach with a sharp cry and a sound that could be a gasp or could be her name.

They lie there for a few moments in companionable silence, but they can't stay there forever.

"Why don't you get cleaned up and I'll put the kettle on?" she offers gently. He shrugs and heads to the shower, and if he's disappointed at the lack of post-coital cuddling he's too wise to say anything.

He's damp and ruffled, a towel wrapped around his waist as he sips the tea, briefing her on every shot fired, every near miss. She catches herself thinking that that is rather nice - it certainly beats her sterile office and Tanner's appalling attempts at filter coffee. There are worse ways to celebrate not dying at the hands of the enemy than sex with the boss followed by tea and biscuits. Yes, she thinks as she smacks his hand away from the last custard cream. This is a habit she could happily settle into.

She might have to order some new lingerie, though. She'll check his file first thing in the morning to make sure she gets the right size.


End file.
